Well, yes

I was just cruising round the blogosphere, as one does towards the end of the evening, sipping my Drambuie (long story), and came across a video where some lady was enunciating her top ten wishes. I gather this is something that well-connected bloggers require each other to do, but hey, why not. Anyway, Mrs QO, busy at the other computer, overheard this lady say "I'd like a car that washed itself."

"What?"

"It's a lady on a blog. She wants a car that would wash itself."

"Park it in the rain, then, that'll do it."

Keeping the peace

Now there was a man. PC 'Tug' Wilson on duty in Slab Square (as we used to call it). A very well liked and well respected policeman and as the photograph clearly shows, he was in fact taller than the Town House. Though I expect that was partly the helmet.

Anyway, to my recent visitors from Northumbria Police (surfing in from Ponteland, I see), I thought that if you decided to drop in again, it would be nice to have something in your line, you know, being on the job and all that. You're very welcome, I should say, and do feel free to come again. Since you arrived via the Hayley Adamson/PR post, I suspect you were only Googling to see just how much slagging off you're getting out here in the media and blogosphere.






















I would hope you'd get the impression that I actually have a lot of time for the police; I know that these days image can't be entirely ignored; and I bet you're sick as a dog about hearing Peel's old gag about the police seeking and preserving public favour not by catering to public opinion but by constantly demonstrating absolute impartial service to the law. It's a different world, I understand that. You've apologised. I'm not even going to make anything much of you having time to check out tiny little blogs like this one. But this story angered me particularly because it suggested to me that there was a sad loss of vision at the top of your force about what policing means.

God knows what Tug Wilson would have said about it.

Serves me right

Now, if I'd drunk just a little less beer this afternoon, I'd have been able to get up from the settee when Lark Rise to Candleford came on. As it was, I was trapped, struggling feebly like an aquatic mollusc caught by low-tide.

For those who haven't seen it, Lark Rise and Candleford are, apparently, two villages set somewhere in Islington Script-writer's Generic PeasantShire, towards the end of the 19th century. These villages are inhabited by people who are deeply strange in at least three ways:

1. They're oddly clean for people living with no running water, electricity or indoor toilets.
2. They have the sort of interpersonal relational problems that nobody, in a bazillion years of evolution, had time for, before the widespread availability of running water, electricity and indoor toilets.
3. These relational problems will be dissected in tedious detail for about an hour before being solved with a smile, a graceful compromise, and a general feeling that everyone has been jolly English and well-behaved and frankly a lesson to us all.
4. Despite these villages being perpetually bathed in golden sunlight all the time, even indoors, nobody is dying of melanoma, or is seen to be applying sunscreen. You'd think the place was under arc-lights...

Before you get pedantic, by the way, scrupulously attentive readers will note that I said 'at least three ways' and this in no way precludes more.

So, let that be a lesson. If you're going to drink too much beer of a Sunday afternoon, make sure the TV isn't on BBC1. Nuff said.

---

Caption for the pic above:
''Ere missis, gi'e us four groats or we'll sing Hotel California again!'
'Cheap at the price, matey. Oh, and put some bloody sunscreen on, would you?'

D'oh!

'Never underestimate the power of human stupidity' - now there's a mistake I haven't made in years. Nonetheless, from time to time something comes along that leaves even me taken aback by its witlessness.

In May 2008, a 16-year-old girl called Hayley Adamson was killed when hit by a police car which was driving at over 90mph, with no lights or sirens. I don't make any comment about the incident itself, other than to note the driver was sent to prison.

No, what has me scratching my head is that Northumbria Police put themselves forward for the Chartered Institute of Public Relations PRide Award last year for its media handling of the case.

WTF?!?

I've had plenty of dealings with media and PR types before (one of the reasons I drink too much) but... but... this is made of wrong. What diseased imagination could think this was a good idea? It's bad enough that the CIPR handed out an award in this case - could these professional media and PR wonks not see how this would play? But what on earth possessed Northumbria Police?

Chief Constable Sue Sim says: 'officers and staff were involved in minimising inappropriate, speculative or inaccurate reporting; working with the family to try to limit the impact of constant harassment by the media and reassuring the local community. This work was singled out for praise by the CIPR.'

You know what? I believe we have too many laws already, but perhaps we could squeeze one more in. Any senior police officer who mentions 'reassuring the local community' should be summarily dismissed. That's it. End of. The 'community' will be greatly reassured thereby, knowing that a fatuous idiot has been removed from a publically-funded position, allowing real police officers to get on with their job.

Time for a drink.

We don't do cool as well as we used to

Now, just consider this image of Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw. Today's anti-fun wonks would be all over that like a rash. Smoking? And drinking? In a bath deep enough to drown in? Heavens. Was that even legal back then?

Yes, and still is. But I suspect it won't be for long. Oh, I know, being 'cool' like this shortens one's life. So we should all stop any such activity, and look forward to an extra three or four years of incontinence in the old people's home. That'll be nice. Only another four hours of sitting in this damp chair and we can have a cup of Horlicks.

Voting rights

It's been a busy time recently, so profuse apologies for the lack of posting since last week. Profuse, but insincere. I mean, it's not like you're paying to read this, now are you? (I can hear a small chorus saying 'Just as bloody well, we'd want our money back.')

But let's move on.

Back in 2004, the European Court of Human Rights ruled that the UK's blanket ban on prisoners voting in elections was in breach of the European Convention on Human Rights. Now, since the current Guvmint was the one to bring in the Human Rights Act 1988 to give further effect in UK law to the rights contained in the Convention, we would naturally assume it would hastily remedy this breach.

Er... or maybe not. Still, it hasn't been inactive on the point - it has launched not one, but two consultations. Good work, chaps. But despite a sharp reminder from Europe, with an election looming, none of the UK's prisoners may vote.

Some of you may think 'serve them right', and take the view that they've forfeited their mandate by offending against society. I say to you: 'you're so far up your own arse we'd need a search party to find you, and there will be few volunteers'.

See, this is where the UK is in breach. If we said, say, those convicted of treason won't get a vote, that would be OK under the Convention - and, for what it's worth, OK by me too. It's the lack of discrimination that's the problem. But those of us with nasty suspicious minds will be thinking that the Guvmint really doesn't want the prison population voting, since a good number are probably Conservative voters. All those inside for crimes of dishonesty, for example, are just working at the extreme end of the bellcurve of those who believe in the free market. Violent offenders fit more neatly into our mental picture of right-wing thugs than lettuce-nibbling Guardian readers. Sexual offenders are generally good candidates for safe Tory seats anyway. So obviously the UK's refusal to abide by the 2004 ruling is a dastardly Guvmint plot!

Oh, and don't get me started on the difficulties the armed forces are having in getting their votes. Given the tensions between Guvmint and the military that have been aired all over the media of late, it's tempting to point at yet another dastardly Guvmint plot!

However, a plot requires a plan, and I'm not convinced that the Guvmint has one at the moment.

In the spring

First a howling blizzard woke us,
Then the rain came down to soak us,
And now before the eye can focus -
Crocus.
Lilja Rogers


What's not to like about this time of year? Writers get quite drunk on springtime clichés, but there's some excuse when one sees snowdrops, daffodils and crocuses. The ones above were snapped in the local park this morning.

And, of course, a writer may get quite drunk in a more literal sense, as it might be at a beer festival. In this part of the Midlands, the early part of the year is stiff with them, and they're excellent opportunities to try some beers that would be hard to find in the local pubs. Here I am with my study materials, last Saturday.














Yes, I'm afraid I do tick off the ones I've had, but no permanent record is kept, I assure you. It's just a technique for finding out how many I've had should – for any reason – memory prove fallible the next day. (It has been known.)

Yet another good thing about this time of year is the planning. Today I have made bookings for not one, but two folk festivals - Shrewsbury and Bromyard. These are excellent occasions. I expect what you have in mind when you think 'folk festivals' is beards, Morris dancing, tankards and wheezy melodeons. Well, yes, that's about right, though there are some other instruments involved, and possibly some singing, too. And what more could you want than to experience them in beautiful surroundings with a real ale tent close at hand?